Lead a Horse to Murder (26 page)

“I see you’re still hovering around,” he hissed.

“I don’t hover,” I returned indignantly, wrenching my arm away. “I happen to be an invited guest. And I don’t appreciate being manhandled.”

“I’m watching you,” he countered, narrowing his beady little eyes so that he looked even more like one of Miss Piggy’s relatives than usual. “That reporter, too.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I returned. “The question in my mind is, why?”

I impressed myself with how cool I’d remained during our brief but unsavory interaction. But as soon as he moved away and disappeared into the crowd, I realized I was shaking. Whether it was from anger or fear, I couldn’t be sure. One thing I
was
sure of, however, was that this entire day was turning out to be more trying than I cared for.

I was relieved when I turned and spotted Andrew MacKinnon heading toward me.

“Dr. Popper!” he greeted me warmly. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting me. This probably doesn’t surprise you, but I’ve never been to an
asado
before.”

“In that case, let me give you a short lecture on the traditional Argentine roast. It even includes the fiftycent tour.”

He took my arm—much more gently than the last person who’d felt I was up for grabs—and led me out of the courtyard. A hundred feet way, at the edge of a field, an elaborate metal grill had been set up over an open fire. Just beyond, I saw rows of wooden picnic tables and chairs, covered by a huge white tent.

“As you can see, it’s very much like an American barbecue,” Andrew said, clearly proud of the setup. “Different cuts of beef and
chorizos
—sausages—are cooked on an open fire.”

“It smells great,” I commented. “What exactly is all this?”

“The barbecue grill is called the
parrilla
. In Argentina, you’ll find a
parrilla
at almost every
estancia
—every ranch. There, the cooking is done inside a little house that’s usually made from mud bricks with a dirt floor— Hector, would you mind serving our special guest?”

As soon as Andrew and I sat down at one of the tables, Hector approached carrying a small grill, the charcoal still glowing red. It was laden with meat.

“This is called a
parrillada,
” Andrew informed me. “It’s basically an assortment of different meats and
chorizos
.”

“Thank you, Hector.” I eyed the food nervously, suddenly remembering my real agenda in coming to Heatherfield this evening. Less than two weeks earlier, someone had died right here on the property—and the victim had been poisoned.

Still, I couldn’t suddenly claim to be a vegetarian or dream up some other excuse to avoid eating the food in front of me, even though this festive event was crawling with murder suspects.

“Dig in,” Andrew insisted. “I want to know what you think.”

I glanced up and saw that he was watching me expectantly. Cautiously I tasted one of the sausages. I had an immediate reaction, all right: sheer ecstasy over the heavenly mixture of distinctive spices and subtle flavors that electrified my taste buds. “This is delicious!” I told him sincerely.

He looked pleased by my reaction. “This is how people eat in the Pampa region in Argentina. Argentina beef is the best in the world. The cattle eat only pampas grass. No hormones, no chemicals. The result is a taste that’s completely unique, no matter how it’s cooked. And there are several different methods: burying the meat in a hole with a fire, roasting it on a spit, or grilling it, like we did today. And I’ve learned from the Argies that there’s a trick: making sure the fire is just right. The secret is to let the coal burn until a thick layer of white ash forms before putting the meat on the grill. Then you need to give it time, letting it cook slowly.”

He filled me in on some more of the fine points of the art of the
asado
, then stopped abruptly. “I hope I haven’t been boring you.”

“Not at all!” I assured him sincerely.

He smiled, looking a little sheepish. “You’re very kind to indulge me. My daughters are always complaining that I get carried away. But in fact, I really should leave you to eat in peace while I get back to some of my other guests. Enjoy!”

“Hey, smells great!” Nick came up behind me, just missing Andrew MacKinnon’s impromptu lecture on Argentine cooking.

“Help yourself,” I replied. “There’s enough meat here for a pride of lions.” I was relieved that our ability to make normal conversation had finally returned—and that the cranky child had disappeared, at least for now.

However, just as I’d begun looking forward to a fun evening with Nick, I noticed another cranky child. Unfortunately, this one was heading in our direction.

Even though this event was the South American equivalent of a barn dance and everyone else was dressed casually, Peyton was decked out in a party dress that looked much more suited to bars than barns. It was very pretty, made of a flowing fabric with swirling flowers in soft shades of lavender and pale green. However, the material happened to be sheer enough to reveal the fact that she wasn’t wearing a stitch underneath.

She zeroed in on my boyfriend like a heat-seeking missile. “Hel-
lo,
Nick,” she purred, sweeping back her veil of pale blond hair and threading her arm through his. “How lovely to see you again! I’m
so
glad you came—even though this barbecue thing is so hokey. My father makes such a big deal about it. I guess he figures it makes the Argies feel at home. But if you’re as bored as I am, we could probably find something more interesting to do. . . .”

“Hi, Peyton,” I said brightly.

She glanced in my direction for all of two seconds. “Oh, hi, Jessica,” she said dully. Immediately she turned her attention back to Nick. “You haven’t seen the swimming pool yet, have you, Nick?” She ran her hand up and down his forearm. “We’ll have to take care of that right away. It’s
definitely
one of the highlights of the tour.”

“Jess?” Nick’s voice was practically a whimper. “Want to come see the pool?”

“She’s already seen it,” Peyton said sharply.

“Actually, I haven’t,” I informed her.

Glowering at me, she said, “This is the
private
tour.”

Nick cast me a desperate glance. At least, I thought he looked desperate. Maybe something else was turning his cheeks the same shade of red as the pieces of raw meat that were just starting to sizzle on the grill.

“Nick?” I croaked. “Are you sure about this?”

“I don’t want to be rude,” he countered. “I mean, this is her house, after all. We’re invited guests.”

Stay out of the cabanas!
I was tempted to call after them as I watched them saunter across the field, Peyton’s arm slung loosely around Nick’s shoulders.

“She is pretty, no?”

I turned and saw Inez standing next to me, holding a plate of food. For once, she wasn’t dressed in a stern black uniform. Instead, she was wearing a pale blue sundress that struck me as much more befitting of a slender twenty-year-old woman.

“I suppose so,” I replied begrudgingly. Given the fact that Peyton had nearly dragged my boyfriend away bodily—and he hadn’t put up much of a fight—I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward her. I decided to change the subject to something that wouldn’t give me heartburn. “How nice that you’re helping Pancho celebrate his birthday,” I said, thinking,
And that you’re
here today as a guest, rather than a servant.

“Pancho, he invited me. We have known each other for a long time. And we both knew Eduardo . . .” Her expression darkened.

“I can imagine how terrible you must feel, losing a friend.”

“Oh, Eduardo and I, we were not really friends,” she said, looking shyly to the side. “He did not really notice me.”

But you noticed him,
I thought. “Still, he was so young and so full of life.”

“You are interested in what happened to Eduardo?” she asked, focusing her dark almond-shaped eyes on me once again. “I heard Meester and Meesus MacKinnon saying you have become friends with a newspaper reporter . . . ?”

“Forrester Sloan,” I said. “We were both at the polo game last Sunday. I suppose a lot of people saw us sitting together.”

“They say they think the two of you, together, are trying to figure out who killed Eduardo. Ees correct?”

“I think we all want to know what really happened to Eduardo,” I replied. “And you’re right: That includes me. Inez, I’m doing everything I can to find out who killed him.”

“Meester and Meesus MacKinnon, they also say the police think he was poisoned at the big party at the club . . . ?”

“That’s the theory the cops seem to think makes the most sense. But I think it’s a mistake to focus on that one event.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, looking confused.

“I’ve got a theory of my own: that it’s just as likely he was poisoned before the event. Sometime during the day, or even earlier that evening. What I intend to do is learn more about who he might have been with during the hours before the country club party. Don’t worry, Inez,” I assured her. “I know Eduardo meant a great deal to a lot of people, and I promise you I’m going to do whatever I can to find out who killed him. You’ve got my word on that.”

She nodded slowly. “Then thees ees good. You sound like you are trying very hard to find out who did thees terrible thing to Eduardo . . .” She stopped, choking on her words. Her eyes were wet as she said, “Now eef you will excuse me, I must go find Luisa. She, too, ees here as Pancho’s guest today.”

As I watched her wander off, I was reminded once again of what a tragedy it was that someone as young and vibrant as Eduardo Garcia had been murdered. The injustice of it made my blood boil.

I took a few deep breaths, then turned back to the plate of meat that was still waiting for me. I was about to resume my sausage-eating frenzy when I noticed the guest of honor standing nearby, next to the barbecue. Figuring that questioning a suspect was bound to be healthier than O.D.’ing on protein, I edged my way over to him.

“Happy birthday, Pancho,” I said boldly.

As he glanced up, a look of shock crossed his face. I guess he hadn’t realized this was a surprise party.

“Dr. Popper! What are you—?”

“Andrew MacKinnon invited me,” I explained. “It was so kind of him. I’ve never been to an
asado
before.”

He stared at me for a few seconds, his eyes filled with distrust. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain.

“The other day,” he said, lowering his voice, “I say too much. I am afraid I was not in such a good mood when you and I talked.”

“Actually, I appreciated your honesty,” I told him.

He shrugged. “We all have a good side and a bad side. In that way, maybe Eduardo and I are not so different.”

“I think that’s true for all of us.”

“But I do not want you to think I am such a bad person.”

“Not at all,” I assured him.
In fact,
I was tempted to add,
you may be one of the most truthful people I’ve
met here at Heatherfield.

“Good.” The smoldering look in his eyes faded. “Then I will see you tomorrow, at the polo game?”

Actually, that hadn’t been on my schedule. But it wasn’t a bad idea. I’d been planning another trip to Heatherfield on Sunday to give Braveheart the final okay before the game, anyway, and I liked the idea of combining business and pleasure. Besides, spending the afternoon in the area would give me another chance to do some snooping. “I’ll be there,” I told him.

“Good,” he said, nodding.

Why was he suddenly concerned about me thinking he’s not such a bad guy? I wondered as I drifted away, back to my table.

There were two obvious possibilities. One was that good old Pancho was hoping our budding friendship might have the potential to head into a different direction. My ego wasn’t inflated enough to buy that one. But the other was just as unsettling. And that was that he was keeping an eye on me while trying to ingratiate himself—all because he knew I was involved in the investigation of Eduardo Garcia’s murder.

It was an interesting thought. Yet I suddenly remembered that at the moment, I had something more immediate to worry about than Pancho’s agenda: my wayward boyfriend and his predatory tour guide. As I sank back onto the wooden bench, contemplating the slabs of meat still waiting for me, I glanced around. I hoped I’d spot him somewhere in the crowd, mingling with someone other than Peyton. No such luck.

What on earth is keeping him?
I wondered.
Surely it
doesn’t take this long to look at a stupid swimming
pool.

“This seat taken?” I looked up and saw Callie hovering near the table, carrying a plate piled high with food. She didn’t wait for an answer before plopping down opposite me.

“Be my guest,” I said anyway.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked. “I thought I saw him earlier.”

“He’s taking a tour of the house.”

“Ah,” Callie said knowingly, sticking a wad of bread into her mouth. “Peyton’s got her claws in him.”

“She’s just being hospitable,” I returned, fully aware that it was me I was trying to convince, not Callie.

“Right. My sister is Miss Manners. If I were you, Dr. Popper, I’d keep an eye on her. Nick is pretty cute. If he were my boyfriend, I’d do everything I could to hang on to him.”

“Nick’s not going anywhere,” I insisted.

“Whatever,” Callie said, making a face. “By the way, I’m thinking of following up on your suggestion about taking art lessons. I checked the Art Students League’s Web site, and it looks like a pretty cool place. My school offers classes, but the teachers aren’t very good. I mean, it’s not like they’re real artists or anything. I go to Porter Hills Academy. Do you know it? It’s a private school, full of snobby kids from the North Shore.”

“Maybe the other kids are a little stuck-up,” I told her, “but I bet you’re getting a great education.”

“I guess. This year, we’re doing Shakespeare. We’re starting with
Romeo and Juliet.
In fact, we’re having a quiz tomorrow. Yuck.”